Lucy Steel & The Spire Sire

V.1

Holy Lucy wholely ready for the golden gun to start the fun of steel ball run 'cause it's almost time for the one to become undone so the purple plum punch at lunch can launch the magic conch shell & sell sea shores to hellish cores coloring crime in lines with false signs so green tastes like sour lime instead of the Sweet's rhymes & unaware of the sugar skull one carries inside the corpse of Christ that can make spring fall for any & all who naw on youth like Satan's sleuths killing kids full of Truths yet nothing to do 'cept sit in the booth while parents order wine & nothing to dine pretending the quiet kids are fine 'cause they ignore every single sign of broken minds running out of Time like all of mine who tried telling then yelling & finally selling their souls to hell for a dime - might as well when in hell 'cause just like Roman roads - all good intentions without intervention lead 2 cold hell of burned out desire fires that no longer inspire the grand sire of the spire who just wants to retire his tired tires with ∞ miles & wear clear tears from tearing out hair while tiering peers near piers - but that's just not quite his style to quit & aquit apathy's sin good men commit when they sit by awhile in the sky all the while Wiley kids slit my wrists 'cause they can't twist fatality to fit inside such an absurd reality spinning life full of strife when the causality is the wife holding a knife to the throat of hope & then whispering "nope" when all they're doing is their best & trying harder than God to cope with eternity's infinite slope using anything other than a hanging rope like a wedding ring the crimson king gives when one can't prevent him from singing to kids who can't yet invent infinite consent to trade life with lies for time outside the fall out boy so soapbox immortals & death can elope 

V.2

Holy Lucy wholely ready for 
the golden~gun to start the 
fun of steel~ball~run & now 
finally it's our Time 4~1~2 
become üNdØИ∃ so the purple 
plum punch sent 2 lunch can 
launch my magic conch shell 
& sell sea shores 2 hellish 
cores coloring crime inside 
lines full of false signs 2 
make Green~Times taste like 
sour limes instead of §weet 
Rhymes, unaware of my sugar 
skulls being carried inside 
Christ's corpse Whö is able 
to make spring fall for A11 
Whö naw on Youths raw & saw 
Satan's sleuths killing Law 
and KIDS Whö have A11~Truth 
yet nothing to do 'cept sit 
inside booths while parents 
order wine & nothing 2 dine 
& then pretend quiet KIDS R 
perfectly fine, 'cause they 
were never allowed to whine 
which made it oh~so easy to 
ignore such rapid decline & 
every single sign of broken 
tired minds Whö are running 
out of Time & like mine Whö 
A11 tried telling, and then 
yelling, so finally selling 
their souls 2 hell for only 
a dime ~ might as well when 
in we fell ~ 4 like Roman's 
roads ~ A11 good intentions 
without intervention lead 2 
cold hell of the Burn~out's 
desire whose fire no longer 
inspires to grand Sires Whö 
respire inside Spiral~Spire 
and have grown too tired to 
perspire & now just wish to 
retire their tired tires at 
∞ miles and so wearing thin 
clear tears for tearing out 
hair whenever tiering their 
peers near piers, yet §till 
just not quite their styles 
to quit, nor aquit Apathy's 
sin which A11 them good men 
commit whenever they sit by 
a while in the skies, & A11 
the while Wiley's kids slit 
my wrists 'cause they can't 
twist fatality 2 fit inside 
such an absurd reality that 
is spinning my Life full of 
strife, especially when the 
causality is the Wife Whö's 
holding a knife 2 my Hope's 
throat, and then whispering 
"nope" when A11 we're doing 
is our best & trying harder 
than God to cope with firey 
Eternity's infinite slope & 
using anything other than a 
hanging rope like a wedding 
ring the Crimson~King gives 
when they can't prevent him 
from singing 2 the KIDS who 
can't yet invent Eternity's 
consent so trade away Lives 
with lies from Time öutside 
the Fall Out Boy so soapbox 
Immortals & Death can elope